The Vows of Infidelity
by xfphile
Summary: " . . . forsaking all others, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live."
1. Chapter 1

_04/10/2013/_

As Krista Anderson stared at the item that now represented the ruin of her marriage, the ending of a significant chapter of her life, and the invisible brand of humiliation that would haunt her thoughts until she died, her first coherent thought wasn't angry, enraged, or bitter. It wasn't even resigned.

It was (slightly hysterical) humor.

After all, how many women in her position had found out their husband was having an affair because of HIS underwear? The irony would choke an elephant. But Stewart was neat and tidy almost to the point of OCD, and never, outside of their honeymoon, when their passion had run rampant, had he ever put his dirty clothes anywhere but the hamper in the bathroom (and this had held true in every place they'd lived, even the shoebox lid that said it was 500 square feet and lied through its teeth to say it). As such, finding his boxers crumpled near the footboard had been a shock. Realizing _why_ they were there had been a blow (women with long hair had a tendency to leave some behind). Understanding what that meant for their life together had buckled her knees and Krista had crumpled, missing the bed entirely and landing heavily on the floor.

Anger finally began to break through the shock and Krista took a deep, shaky breath, crushing the green and yellow fabric even more. That. Rat. _Bastard._ How DARE he fuck another woman just because she had been horrifically busy at work these past two months?! Two people had quit, one had been fired, and one was working split shifts between their pharmacy and the branch in Surrey because theywere _also_ shorthanded. It wasn't like 18- to 20-hour days were _her_ idea of fun. She had missed her husband desperately – seeing him, talking to him, making love with him . . . hell, even cuddling on the couch or in bed. As it stood, she'd been so exhausted when she got home every day (and the hours differed, which just made things worse, as there was no set schedule for anyone to acclimate to) that it took her remaining energy to change out of her work clothes, and on her rare day off (which had only corresponded with Stewart's once), she either slept or took care of bills, errands, food shopping, cleaning (though admittedly, there wasn't much of the last; Stewart couldn't stand clutter, so he did most of the cleaning himself), and the general minutiae of life. Then, when all THAT was done, if Stewart wasn't home, she would try to rest, if not actually sleep.

So, she and her husband hadn't actually had sex in two months, and Krista completely understood his frustration and anger. After all, she'd gone through much the same thing while he was in Forensics school. As with med school, forensics also pulled unGodly long shifts for ridiculous lengths of time, and they'd both been aggravated with the near-complete lack of intimacy. This was coupled with the fact that they hadn't been married a year yet, and sex was (as with all newlywed couples) extremely high on their list of priorities.

But had SHE gone out and shagged another man because her husband was trying to survive school? NO, she had _not_. And don't even talk to her about 'needs,' thank you. It wasn't like Stewart hadn't been taking of them himself since the age of 14 (like virtually every male ever born). Another person was infinitely preferable, but not required. And, most importantly, SHE was his 'other person.' Krista honestly couldn't decide what pissed her off more, before realizing it didn't matter. The entire thing was rotten to the core, her husband was a lying, cheating, bastard, and she needed to take action.

Counseling and reconciliation never occurred to her, because she knew her husband well, and so understood this: for him to have left his clothes out like that, he had to trust the person to a fairly large extent – and that meant a long-term affair, not just the past few months. Stewart always put his clothes away _now_ because that was his personality. But when they'd first gotten married, having dated a little over two years, he wasn't nearly as compulsive about it. If they didn't have sex, the clothes went in the hamper. If they did, things stayed where they landed and got picked up later. It wasn't until they'd been married – well, about two years, actually – that he started changing to sleepwear in the bathroom, so that when they had sex, he could just put his clothes back on and go straight to bed. This bemused his wife to no end, but it was part of who he was, so she shrugged and left him to it. It wasn't anything to get hysterical about or pick a fight over, after all, and just because she thought it was odd didn't mean he needed to change.

So, faced with the fact that her husband of 13 years had been having a long-term affair and knowing that she, herself, would not forgive such a betrayal, never mind trust him again, Krista Anderson drew in a deep breath, took one last look at the now-tainted image of what had been a happy home, and gave a grim smile. She had work to do that had no connection to packing Stewart's things. During his years with the Yard, Krista had been to innumerable functions and had made several friends. Among those was a woman who also worked in Forensics, but didn't go into the field, unlike Stewart. Musing over her suspicion that the affair was with a co-worker, Krista stalked into the kitchen (shooting a poisonous glare toward the yellow-accented mint green wallpaper; she disliked both colors in large quantities, while they were her husband's favorite. Case in point: the boxers she was now gingerly carrying with two fingers) and headed for the drawer where they kept the plastic bags. Quickly, she stuffed the cloth into a gallon bag and sealed it before grabbing her phone, jacket, and purse.

She was about 5 minutes down the street before remembering that her Oyster card was still on the foyer table. Muttering a curse, she spun on her heel and marched back to the house, yanking her keys out of the purse. Her frustration boiled over when the door refused to unlock at first and the sight of their wedding portrait behind her card pushed her over the edge, sending her into helpless sobs.

_"Why?" _she cried aloud in anguish, wrapping her arms around her stomach as she sank to the floor, feeling like she was going to shake apart. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stared at the picture. "Why, Stewart?" she moaned, holding herself even more tightly. "I thought we were happy." This was a helpless murmur and Krista sagged back against the door, closing her eyes against the proof of her once-happy life as she cried.

It seemed like forever had passed when a startled, "Krista!" broke the fog surrounding her. She rubbed the tears out of her eyes, blinking furiously to clear her vision, and looked up into the worried eyes of Dana Hartson, a dispatcher at Scotland Yard. She and Dana had become fast friends after meeting at an office Valentine's Day party – Lord, almost a decade ago – and Krista, though humiliated to be found sobbing on the floor like that vapid girl from 'Twilight,' was also so relieved she felt momentarily lightheaded.

"Dana, hey," she said, offering a wan smile (it was more like a grimace, but hey! It's the thought that counts, right?) as she pushed an unsteady hand through tangled brown curls. "Whatcha doing?"

Her friend shot her an incredulous look as she grabbed a wrist and hauled Krista off the floor. "Yeah, no," she drawled, fishing a tissue out of her pocket and handing it to Krista. "What happened?" she asked gently after Krista had wiped her face (smudging her remaining mascara all to hell) and blowing her nose.

For some reason, the gentleness brought back the anger and Krista growled, "That sorry bastard is _cheating_ on me, that's what happened!"

And it was only because she was looking directly at Dana that she caught the flinch. It was minute, but there. And the betrayal was like being dropped into the Thymes in January.

"Dana, no," she gasped, taking an involuntary step back.

The other woman frowned, absently closing the door, as she studied Krista. When understanding hit, her eyes widened to saucers.

It really should have been funny.

It wasn't.

"Lord, Krista," Dana exclaimed, sounding a little exasperated but not angry. "No offense, but there is no way on earth I would *ever* sleep with Anderson. Apart from being, you know, YOUR HUSBAND, he is _beyond_ not my type."

Krista studied the other woman carefully, taking in the subtle shifts and changes in her body language (being a pharmacist in a major company had exposed her to more than a lot of junkies and addicts, and some of them were surprisingly good at hiding it; she had, perforce, learned to see beyond the obvious. To _observe_. She'd said as much, once, after calling out the killer on some _Law and Order_ episode, and Stewart had gone off about Sherlock Holmes and how he never wanted to hear 'observe' again. Krista had rolled her eyes at this, but had subsequently done her best to accommodate him. She didn't know Holmes other than from Stewart's descriptions, but he sounded infuriating and she could understand why her husband didn't want reminders of him at home.). To her cautious relief, it looked like Dana was telling the truth.

But if she wasn't shagging Stewart, why did she flinch?

Oh. She knew who was. Of course; if her suspicions were correct and Stewart was sleeping with a co-worker, their colleagues would likely know, or at least suspect. They were cops, after all, and trained to be observant (imagining his wince gave Krista a vicious feeling of satisfaction).

"Who, Dana?" she demanded, keeping her eyes on her friend. "I know you know, so you might as well tell me."

Dana swallowed and glanced down, sighing heavily.

"I don't know for sure," she began, looking everywhere but at Krista. "I've never seen them together, never personally had so much as an inkling, but rumour has it – God, Krista, I'm sorry, I just . . . I couldn't tell you because I didn't know for sure and if I was wrong . . ."

"It's okay, Dana," Krista murmured, blinking back fresh tears. "I don't – I don't blame you, but I need to know."

Dana took a deep breath and met her eyes. "The most consistent rumours have him sleeping with –"

Crystal Tallman.

"—Sally Donovan."

Wait. What?

"S-sally Donovan?" Krista stuttered, her brain freezing. "The woman who joined Greg's team a few years ago?"

Dana nodded. "That's the rumour, anyway. But like I said," she warned, "I don't know for sure."

Krista nodded, understanding better than Dana realized what kind of hell she'd been living. The same thing had happened to one of her cousins several years prior, and she had been in Dana's position. The reminder of her cousin's misery was enough to jumpstart her thoughts.

"Well, I'm going to find out," she announced, holding up the plastic bag containing Stewart's boxers. "I was on my way to see Paula when I realized I'd forgotten my card and had to come back. Then I had a minor breakdown and that's when you got here." Here she paused for a few seconds, looking at her friend. "Why _are_ you here, anyway?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Dana looked up. "Oh. I came to see if you wanted to have a girls' night, since you were actually off tomorrow."

Krista gave a watery smile. "Yeah, I would. Too bad."

"Yeah," Dana agreed quietly. "Too bad."

They stood in silence for a minute before Dana stirred.

"Wait, why you were going to see Paula?" she asked. Paula Trask was the friend who worked in Forensics, and a mutual friend to Dana.

"Well, there were some hair strands on his boxers that sure as hell aren't his," Krista explained. "I want to get them tested, because when I give that bastard the divorce papers, I'm also naming her as the primary reason, and I want evidence and documentation so he doesn't try to claim 'abandonment' because I've been swamped at work the past two months."

She looked over to see Dana gaping at her, and gave a humourless smile.

"I know," she said. "I just had a breakdown and now I'm talking about divorce and suits and evidence. Trust me, in a few days everything'll sink in and I'll probably go into shock. But right now, I can function and I am _beyond _furious, so I'm getting the ball rolling."

There was a long pause after that, broken when Dana laughed and shook her head. "Hell, I'm not going to argue with you," she said. "Let me call Paula and make sure she's in, and we'll get going."

That sounded good, so Krista (who was starting to feel a little numb) nodded and let Dana make the call while she went to the bathroom to clean up and reapply some basic makeup. She also took a moment to just . . . stop. Reflect. And realize that no matter how much she might wish otherwise in the coming days, life would never be the same. _She_ would never be the same.

And only time would tell if she had the strength to embrace that change.

_04/19/2013/_

When the sky fell on Stewart Anderson, it did so with such a vengeance that most people wondered just what he'd done to piss God off so much.

The day did not start off well – his and Sally's night had been interrupted by a murder/kidnapping, it was raining so much that people were starting to gather two of every animal, and Lestrade had called in the freak.

This went as well as could be expected.

Which is to say, not at all.

By the time everyone (including the freak and his flatmate) had gathered back at the Yard to start building a timeline and pool together their evidence and resources, Anderson was well past 'short-tempered' and heading rapidly toward 'oh, hell, he's pulled the pin. Duck!'

The arrival of a large, well-built man dressed in a suit that rivaled the freak's for style - though he won for elegance, because Sherlock hadn't willingly worn a tie since his last day in grammar school - and a face that could've graced _Esquire _only served to increase his irritation with the world at large, but the sight of every woman in the vicinity - including a few who had to have come from different departments (if not actual floors) - looking at him like he was a steak dinner and they had just finished a three-day fast was what set him off.

"Oi!" he snapped, heading to intercept the interloper. "What'd'you think you're doing down here? The visitor's area is out front!"

Contemptuous green eyes swept over him, dismissed him, and then shot back to him, giving him a once-over that made Anderson want to squirm. After nearly a minute of silence while the man eyed him, Lestrade said, "Ill-mannered though it was, my colleague did ask you a question. As you aren't a member of the Yard and aren't being escorted, why are you in this area?"

And of course, the freak chose that moment to step out of Lestrade's office, Watson at his shoulder.

"Well, I should think it's obvious, Lestrade," that dark baritone drawled with its typical arrogance. "He's here to serve Anderson divorce papers."

The room suddenly felt as though all the air had been sucked out of it. Anderson went cold.

_"Sherlock!" _Watson hissed, his face red.

"What?" the freak demanded, turning back to his flatmate. "He asked, so presumably he wanted an answer."

"It was still a bit not good!" Watson snapped back, trying to keep his voice down. "He probably wanted to do that privately,"

"Oh, no, no, not at all," the stranger replied, his light tenor carrying well across the tense silence of the Yarders. "I was specifically asked to serve them in public, so you upstaged me a bit, but it's fine."

There was an awkward moment where the stranger and the freak studied each other, Watson kept an unobtrusive hand on the freak's arm, and Lestrade's team stood there in total silence, looking like nothing so much as a group of teenagers who have accidentally stumbled into a retirement home: uncomfortable, horrified, and wishing desperately for a hole to open up beneath them.

The - what did you call someone whose job was to wreck your life in front of God and everybody? - suited stranger broke it by grinning. "How'd you know?" he asked with genuine curiosity. "I mean, I don't have any labels or cards or anything -"

The freak opened his mouth to answer, but Lestrade cut him off. "That's a conversation for another time, Mr . . ."

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, the name's Tanner. Wesley Tanner."

He gave his hand to Lestrade, who shook it reluctantly. A numb Anderson vaguely registered the pitying looks he was getting from his colleagues but most of his thoughts were full of horrified understanding. For Krista to file for divorce meant she knew. For her to do it in such an open, humiliating way meant no chance of reconciliation.

For her to do it in front of his colleagues while he was at work meant war. A war that already well underway.

Feeling sick, Anderson could only stare at the packet in his hands, but he heard the soft whispers and murmurs beginning around him.

_"It was inevitable . . ."_

_"About damned time . . ."_

_"At work, in front of everybody? What a cow . . ."_

_"Oh, God, I work in a soap opera . . ."_

But most of all, he heard the laughter. A quick glance showed him that every eye in the room was on him, and he flinched. Sally started to come to him, but at her first step, she received several looks. Anderson couldn't tell what they were, but Sally aborted her movement and didn't look back at him.

Rationally, Anderson knew it was best if he and Sally kept their distance for a bit. However, he wasn't capable of rational thought just then, and betrayal and rage swept through him like a hurricane, drenching everything in its path. He managed to collect himself enough to face the man - Tanner - and stiffly say, "Thank you, sir," before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. How he kept his composure he would never know, especially once he heard Lestrade order everyone out for an hour break, and that when they came back, they'd focus on the case and nothing else, or he would send them home.

The last made Anderson flush with shame and humiliation, and he stumbled blindly into a vacant interview room, breathing heavily and trying not to throw up as he fell into a chair. The door closing made him look up, and time stopped as he stared into Krista's pity-filled eyes.

As Krista watched Stewart accept the divorce papers, looking rather like he'd been hit by a lorry, all she felt was vicious satisfaction. Let's see how _he_ liked being humiliated in front of virtually everyone important to him.

However, as she watched him crumple and withdraw from the impact, and heard the whispers and laughter, her satisfaction ebbed as shame bubbled up. Krista was well-aware that she had a vindictive streak, but this was beyond the pale. Even if serving him at work was warranted, doing so when he had a case was completely unjustified. To be fair, there hadn't been one when she'd signed the papers the day before, and Tanner certainly had no way of knowing, but that didn't abrogate her of responsibility. She'd wanted to hurt him the way he'd hurt her, and appearances had always been important to him.

As she watched him struggle for control, doubt surged up. It hadn't even been a fortnight since the initial discovery, but she'd already confirmed the affair, removed his name from the deed and all the utilities, filed and signed divorce papers, and was in the middle of preparing a suit against Sally Donovan. One could say that was a touch fast.

As if the thought of her was a signal, Krista saw Donovan start to go to Stewart, and her doubts fell back beneath the raging lava of betrayal and anger that had been her constant companions for the past eight days. She'd been staying with Dana, and it was telling that Stewart hadn't actually noticed, for there had been no phone calls and only two text messages, both of them rather perfunctory 'how's it going?' types.

Still, his boorish behaviour was no reason for her to respond in kind - more than she already had, anyway - so Krista firmly pushed down the desire to confront him in the open and edged back into the shadows, grateful to see him heading her way. Scotland Yard wasn't designed to be easy to hide in, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen.

Gratitude swelled when she heard Greg order what was essentially a recess, only to compete with a resurgence of shame at his addendum to leave everything but the case at home or else. He sounded like her old primary school teacher, Mrs. Schwartz, when the class was being rowdy. They had the exact same note in their voices, too: that resigned frustration that said 'yes, I've accepted the fact that I am, in fact, trying to ride herd on a bunch of toddlers masquerading as people old enough to know better.'

Oh, God, what had she done?

Sick with guilt, now, Krista watched Anderson shuffle toward an empty interview room, his eyes glazed with shock and disbelief. Krista had had every intention of leaving with a signed divorce decree when she walked in, but thoughts of reconciliation were beginning to surface. Stewart just looked so . . . so stunned.

And heartsick.

That did surprise her somewhat, as the past week had given her some perspective once the initial shock had worn off, and Dana (God bless her) was ruthlessly pragmatic. She was fully supportive of Krista, but she was equally determined to make her realize that it took two to tango, as the saying went. And one of the things Dana had reminded her of was the woeful lack of communication between her and Stewart, a condition that had steadily grown worse over the past several months.

_"Look, Kris, I know it doesn't excuse him shagging that bint, but let's be honest. When's the last time _you_ initiated contact? I mean, have you even tried to catch him at work while you're out running errands, or do you just get it done and head home?_

_A sharp denial sprang to her lips, but Dana headed her off at the pass._

_"I'm not talking a full-on date, with a marching band and a half-time show. But really, would it have killed you to gone by, kissed him, and said, "Hey, hon, what time are you off? You want me to have Thai food waiting when you get home?" How hard would that have been? He's not innocent by any stretch, but . . . well . . . neither are you."_

_"It sounds like you're siding with him," Krista spat out. It was churlish in the extreme, but like most people, having her faults pointed out wasn't the highlight of her day. Especially in light of the day she'd had._

_To her credit, Dana didn't retaliate. She merely gazed steadily at her friend until Krista flushed and looked away._

_"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "That was uncalled for."_

_"You're damn right. I'm not the enemy, Kris, and I'm not saying you should stay with him. That's your decision, and his. I'm just saying you need to get your head on straight, and you _have_ to put things in perspective. If you don't have your geese in a row when you talk to him, he's gonna blindside you."_

_Krista couldn't help but laugh, though it had a bitter edge to it. "Ducks, Dana."_

_The other woman blinked a few times. "Say again?"_

_"Ducks," Krista repeated. "If I don't have my ducks in a row."_

_"Well, who the hell cares?" Dana demanded. "As long as they're in a row, they can be rabbits." And here, the teasing note in her voice deepened to caution. "You just . . . need to careful, Kris. You can be vindictive and God knows you could teach an elephant how to hold a grudge –" Krista's sharp inhale made her pause, but only for a moment – "so you're going to have to work to remember how things were, instead of how you want them to be."_

_A very fraught moment passed before Krista sighed heavily and slumped back in the chair._

_"I know," she admitted. "And it's going to be so hard, because I am so angry. And hurt. I mean, if he doesn't love me anymore, that would . . . well, it would still be awful, but at least if he'd admitted it and asked for a divorce, it would have been honest. Instead, he decided to have his cake and eat it, too. And I can't forgive that, Dana. I just can't."_

_"You don't have to," Dana soothed her. "I just don't want you to get so caught up in revenge that you lose yourself."_

_Well, that had been a spectacular failure,_ Krista mused as she watched Stewart stagger into the room and fall into a chair. Pity overcame her anger and she followed him in, quietly closing the door without looking away. At the 'snick' of the lock engaging, Stewart looked up and their eyes met.

Seeing pity in Krista's gaze was the straw that broke the camel's back. In retrospect, this was where things had _really_ gone wrong.

Well, depending on who you asked.

"What the HELL d'you think you're doing?" he all but shouted, slamming a fist on the table. "I haven't seen or talked to you in days, you don't answer my texts, and then you serve me with divorce papers?!"

Hearing the hysterical edge to his voice made Anderson pull back, but not far. He was too furious for that.

"Do you really want to go there, Stewart?" Krista snapped back, her eyes flashing. The pity was gone, washed away by a fury that matched his. "How long have you been shagging her?" she demanded, her voice throbbing with rage – and pain.

And though Anderson had known she'd figured it out, hearing her be so blatant about caught him off-guard, and he answered truthfully.

"Eight months."

Sheer instinct had him moving back enough to keep from being slapped out of the chair, but not enough to avoid it completely, and he put a hand to his throbbing cheek as he sat back up. The rage in her eyes kept him silent, and he could almost swear the temperature in the room had dropped.

"Eight _months?!_" she spat, bracing her hands on the table as she glared at him. "You've been cheating on me for _eight months?!"_

Having somewhat recovered his equilibrium by then, Anderson fired back. "Well, what's it say that you never even noticed, Kris? How long did you expect me to put up with you ignoring me?"

His accusation hit with obvious impact, but Krista rallied swiftly. "And of course, instead of saying something – anything – you thought the answer was to shag someone else."

Abruptly, her rage vanished, and was replaced by a deep, bewildered _hurt._ And Stewart Anderson felt something he hadn't experienced since his second tryst with Sally.

Guilt.

It was a cloying, living thing, threatening to choke him, and the feeling only intensified when his wife asked, in a voice thick with tears, "If you weren't going to . . . or didn't see the need to . . . say anything about the fact that we never saw each other, Stewart, why didn't you just ask for a divorce? Who knows? Maybe it would have woken us up to what we were doing. Or maybe, we would have realized that things weren't going to get better and mutually decided to walk away."

He said nothing, because he had no answer. Truthfully, he hadn't thought that far ahead. As he hadn't been getting any kind of attention from his wife and Sally had caught his notice from the moment she'd joined Lestrade's team, asking her for a drink had been easy, especially since he hadn't been sure of her answer. If she'd said 'no,' he would've walked away and never asked again. But she'd said 'yes.' To be sure, he'd felt guilty the entire time, but it was gradually swamped by the pleasure of having someone pay attention to him for a change, and when she'd proposed a second tryst, it had only taken him a moment to say yes.

And things had snowballed from there.

He supposed the truthful answer to Krista's question was that he wasn't in love with Sally. Nor was she in love with him. Their times together were about mutual pleasure and enjoyment, nothing more. Still, he wasn't a complete idiot (the freak's observations aside), so he made no attempt to say any of this out loud. Instead, he let his own festering hurt loose and snapped, "Well, what's it matter? You've filed, so my opinion obviously isn't important to you."

He was expecting another jab, or accusation, as that was Krista's pattern: attack, then attempt to bludgeon the other side into surrender by sheer dint of exhaustion. What he got stunned him into silence.

"No, Stewart. You've already made your opinion clear. And even though we're both at fault for letting things degenerate this far, I'll never trust you again. All I can do is walk away, and thank God that we never had children."

That stung. Anderson had never really wanted kids, but hearing his wife say she was grateful for it – especially in that tone of voice – drove a spike of resentment through his hurt.

"So, that's it, then? Fifteen years, and it's over?"

She met his gaze calmly, though her eyes were brimming with all the things she wasn't saying.

"Yes," she agreed quietly, and it was a death knell in the stillness of the room. He couldn't breathe. All he could do was stare.

"Yes," she said again, and sank into the other chair, pulling the divorce papers out of the envelope. "I've already taken you off the deed and utilities, and packed your things. I'd like your key back, as I don't want to change the locks, and if you sign, we don't have to go to court. The house was mine, and I don't want anything from you. I have my own career and income, and to be perfectly frank, just the thought of taking anything from you makes me a little sick."

Anderson could only gape at his wife, unable to truly grasp what he was hearing.

"You – you just want to me sign," he finally managed to stutter. "No discussion, no negotiation, no nothing. Just sign my life away and hope you used lube when you screwed me."

"God, Stewart, don't be vulgar," she sneered, her face twisted with disgust and no small amount of contempt. "Or ridiculous. I fully expect you to read them before you sign them, but I don't want a damn thing from you, and if you think you're getting anything from me, you've got another think coming. All I want now is for this to be done so I can try to start over. Is that so much to ask?"

The absurdity of this statement had Anderson gaping at her again.

"Thirteen years of marriage, fifteen years total, and you just want to . . . walk away. No discussion, no nothing. Yeah, I think that's a little too much to ask."

She shrugged with careful indifference, though he could see the tension in her shoulders.

"Then don't sign them. But if you force a court hearing, Stewart, I will call Greg, and Sherlock Holmes, and anyone else I can find in as witnesses that they knew you were having an affair. In spite of my actions today, a public spectacle is actually the last thing I want. But if you push the issue, Stewart, I will give you one. The choice is yours, because I'm done."

Anderson stared hard at his wife, seeing the determination in the set of her jaw, and her resolve manifesting in the way her hands lay on the table, and began to understand that he'd truly lost her. The realization was not unlike what he imagined being shot felt like – first the impact, then the noise, followed by the pain. He closed his eyes against it for an endless moment, then slowly shook his head as he looked at her.

"I need to go over them with my solicitor and give this a great deal of thought before I agree to anything, Krista," he said firmly, burying his emotions behind a calm mask.

She shrugged again, and it was only because he knew her so well that Anderson saw the carefully-hidden fear she was feeling. "That's your decision, Stewart, and I know this isn't an easy decision to make, so I've given you nine days."

That was an odd number and Anderson blinked. "Nine – why nine days?" he inquired, befuddled.

"That's how long it took me to decide," she answered steadily, though her voice did waver a bit.

"You've done all this in _nine days_?!" he squawked, stunned. It taken longer than that to get the damned electricity set up in the house!

"Come on, Stew. Have I ever been the sort to waste time?" she asked, almost coyly, and for just a moment, it felt like everything was normal. They stared at each other for a long moment before Krista shattered the illusion by putting the papers back in the envelope.

"Text me when you've made up your mind," she told him as she stood up. "You'll understand if I don't want to speak to you for a while."

Stupidly, Anderson nodded. The enormity of what was happening was starting to sink in, and apparently, his brain's method of protection was a complete lockdown (so, the same as always, the freak would have jeered).

"I can do that," he managed after a few seconds.

"Good," she said crisply, and walked to the door. Anderson scrambled to his feet and made to follow, but she held up a hand and he skittered to a stop.

"I do owe you an apology, Stewart," she murmured, flushing.

Caught completely off-guard after everything that had happened, the only thing he could come up with was, "Huh?"

"For serving you the papers at work, in front of your colleagues," she answered. "I was hurt and angry, but that was a horrid thing to do, especially in light of you having a case, and I'm sorry. I should have waited until you came home."

"I – thank you," he managed. This was completely and utterly unlike his wife, who, given a choice between apologizing and being caned, would say "Use the bamboo and bring me a shot of whiskey." He felt a small surge of satisfaction at hearing her admit – for once – that she was in the wrong, but it faded quickly.

She gave him a regal nod and turned to leave and again, he made to follow. This time, he got a whole two steps before she stopped him, searching his eyes intently before sighing.

"God, Stewart, just ask," she said, exasperation in her voice.

He blinked at this insight, as it was also unusual, and obeyed.

"How did you know?" he almost whispered.

Sorrow filled her eyes and she looked away.

"Your boxers – they were under the bed and I found them when I went to change the sheets," she whispered back.

He knew it was wrong, but Anderson couldn't help laughing a little at the irony. To his surprise, Krista laughed with him. Their shared humor faded quickly, though, and there was a stilted pause before his wife straightened and said, "Goodbye, Stewart," as she opened the door, stepping through and pulling it closed behind her. Only when he was alone did Anderson reply.

"Goodbye, Krista."

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as she left the room – and Stewart – Krista slumped against the wall and sighed. That had gone better than expected, while simultaneously being one of the worst things she'd ever experienced, and she was drained. All she wanted now was to crawl into bed and hide from the world for a few days. As she hadn't actually done that yet, Krista felt more than a little entitled to it. And, since she had taken a leave from the pharmacy to deal with things, she actually could.

Taking a deep breath, Krista pushed away from the wall and promptly plowed straight into Greg Lestrade.

"Oof!" she gasped, rocking back on her heels.

"You alright?" he asked, steadying her for a few seconds before releasing her.

"Yeah," she answered. "I'm sorry, Greg."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"No worries," he replied. "You didn't actually knock me over, so England is safe for another day."

It was their familiar banter, light and teasing, but Krista wanted to weep, because his voice was empty.

"I'm not talking about that, Greg," she answered softly, shame once again washing over her. "I meant about having him served with the papers at work in front of everyone."

Though his expression didn't warm one iota, some of the tension in the room eased, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Thanks for that," he told her, "but it's him you should be saying it to."

"I already have," Krista assured him, looking away. "I'm – well, to honest, Greg, I'm flaming pissed, but it's put you in an awkward position as well, and that's not right." She met his eyes again and swallowed. "I'd ask why you didn't tell me, because apparently everyone in your office knew" (guilt covered his face) "but since I wouldn't have listened, it's probably for the best."

And now relief was the prevalent emotion in his eyes. "It's been hell," he said, leaning forward. "He's my colleague and a friend, you're his wife and also my friend, and she's a colleague. Frankly, it was a giant clusterfuck from the beginning."

Krista felt sorry for him, knowing full well how trapped he'd been, and said so. "It's not your fault, Greg. It isn't anyone's fault but his, hers . . . and mine." She added herself reluctantly, not wanting to admit her own responsibility but knowing she couldn't shirk it. Not for this.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Still, for what it's worth, I _am _sorry."

She offered a tiny smile and took his hand, squeezing it tightly.

"I know. And I'm not asking you to choose sides, either," she assured him. "But I do want to warn you: Sally Donovan is named as a primary cause on the divorce papers, and I'm preparing a civil suit against her now."

Greg sucked in a sharp breath and pulled away, pacing several steps back before meeting her eyes again. Stunned horror was in his gaze, but there was also . . . grim satisfaction?

Well, but he'd said it. She and Stewart were both his friends, and Donovan was a team member. She wasn't the only one who'd been betrayed.

"I can't blame you," he said in a low voice, "but I would ask you to wait. I don't have another sergeant available and having to, in essence, suspend her until the suit is decided will cripple my team."

That . . . was a good point and a fair request, and Krista truly wished she could accommodate him.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I've already filed and signed the papers, and given them to Stewart. If he signs them, the suit has to be filed within 30 days; if he doesn't, and we go to court, the suit will run concurrently. Either way, it's on a timeframe."

To her surprise, Greg gave a wan smile. "Yeah, I know," he said in answer to her look. "But I thought I'd ask anyway; you never know."

His pragmatic optimism sparked a small giggle, albeit one tinged with sorrow. "No," she agreed. "You never know."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so they watched each other in a silence that quickly became uncomfortable.

"Well, I need to go," she finally said, gesturing toward the door. He agreed with almost indecent haste, stepping back and clearing her path.

"Of course," he said. "Good luck," he added as she passed him. "And let me know if you need anything."

They both knew she wouldn't, but perversely, they each felt better for the offer.

"I will," she lied, and he nodded in acceptance – and understanding.

"I'll see you around, then," he called as she started down the hall.

"Bye, Greg," she replied quietly over her shoulder. Before she turned back around, she saw him step into the room Stewart had yet to vacate.

God, she needed a drink.

Anderson stared blankly at the door for an interminable number of minutes, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He wasn't having much luck, so naturally, that's when Lestrade came in. His expression was complicated: pity, anger, sympathy, and disgust were battling for dominance, and those were just the emotions Anderson recognized. As he was still incapable of speech, Lestrade dived straight in.

"Look, Anderson, this obviously isn't the best time, but given the situation, I'm taking you off this case. You aren't suspended," he hurried to add at Anderson's involuntary squawk of protest, "but right now, you're a liability. And I'm sorry, but my priority has to be finding that boy – and the murderer. So, go home, do what you need to do, and I'll call you when this case is over."

Anderson was struck dumb by this; it wasn't enough that he was being divorced, but now he was being forced out of his job, too? What the hell had he done to deserve this?!

(he didn't even hear that little voice saying 'you had an affair, you wanker')

He didn't get the chance to voice an objection before the DI continued. "I know this is fast, abrupt even, but I don't have time to coddle you, Anderson. The team'll be back in a few minutes and we _have_ to get cracking on this case. So, come on," he said, grasping Anderson's arm and urging him out the door. By then, the shock had worn off and Anderson shook Lestrade off, fixing him with an icy glare.

"So, just to be clear," he snapped, "I'm no longer allowed to work my own case, but I'm not suspended? That's bullshit. Sir."

Lestrade sighed and raked a hand through his hair, ignoring the blatant disrespect. "No, Anderson, you're not suspended. I'll put this in as a leave of absence, so there won't be any mark on your record."

Anderson scoffed. "That . . . that's just great," he said sarcastically. "I'm served with divorce papers and can't do my job, but it won't hurt my record. Well, someone grab the champagne!"

Lestrade finally lost his patience.

"Well, Anderson, I'm sorry but you did this to yourself," he snapped back, eyes flashing. "Now you have to deal with the consequences. I've done the best I can for you, and if you don't like it, tough. I have to get back to work."

And what that final, rather cold announcement, the DI stalked off to his office.

Hurt and angry, Anderson watched him go. Even Lestrade was taking Krista's side!

Multiple footsteps reminded him that the team was returning and as he didn't want to see or talk to anyone, Anderson quickly ducked to the right and headed for the car lot exit. He needed to think.

_04/22/2013/_

It had been three days since Krista had upended his world, and Anderson had come to the reluctant conclusion that she had won. The divorce decree was exactly what she'd said: a complete separation of assets. She hadn't asked for a single thing from him – not even the right to keep his name.

Of everything involved in the whole miserable situation, that hurt the most. Krista truly was ready and willing to walk away from him and their entire life together. No muss, no fuss, no discussion, no negotiation, no nothing. Anderson honestly thought that if it hadn't been a necessity to have his signature on the papers, he wouldn't have known he was divorced until his clothes and such had been delivered to the Yard (and hadn't THAT been awkward?).

In the interim, he had thought to take solace in Sally, but he also had yet to hear from her, which only fanned the flames of his resentment. His wife had left him, his girlfriend couldn't be bothered to commiserate with him, and he couldn't even get together with any mates from the Yard, because the rumour mill had run overtime and everyone remotely associated with the police knew that he'd been served because of his affair with Sally, and even those men who might have been sympathetic to his plight wouldn't risk a public display of that sympathy.

In short, Anderson's life sucked.

And if that wasn't enough, Billings had called the day before to tell him that Krista's proposed settlement was one of the most equitable things he'd ever seen, and that he would be hard-pressed to find a judge who would agree to a 'you owe me/I deserve' fight, should he choose that route.

In addition to his life sucking, Anderson was also screwed.

This did not sit well with him – especially since a large part of it was his own fault.

Making matters worse, the freak had solved the case Anderson had been so unceremoniously removed from, and his name had been prominent in the resulting news articles. Were things normal, this would have nothing more than a strong irritant. In his present state, it was beyond infuriating. But what pushed him over the edge into complete irrationality was the significant portions of several major articles that talked about one Paula Trask, and how her contributions had been significant, combining with the freak's to find the boy (broken leg but no other injuries) and the kidnapper/murderer (killed while attempting to escape custody). Anderson already hated Sherlock Holmes and had nothing but contempt for John Watson; Paula Trask had just been added to his list. The belated realization that she and Krista were friends only made it worse.

And suddenly, the mystery of _how_ Krista had known he was sleeping with Sally was solved. She'd found his boxers after a tryst; Paula worked in Forensics; she and Paula were friends; DNA tests and fingerprinting would be child's play.

Which meant there was an official chain of evidence.

Oh, hell. Krista was going to file a suit against Sally. It hadn't escaped his notice that she'd been listed as a primary reason for the divorce. His first instinct was to call Sally and warn her, but memory stayed his hand. He knew perfectly well that they couldn't resume their . . . activities . . . until the dust had settled, but she hadn't contacted him at all, which rankled. She was just as responsible for this mess as he was, after all, but the minute the boat rocked, she had jumped in a lifeboat.

On retrospect, this wasn't particularly surprising. It still rankled.

In a sudden surge of aggressive anger, he grabbed a pen and viciously scrawled his signature across the line at the bottom of the first page. That first signing triggered a flood and in less than two minutes, Anderson had signed all eleven pages. After he crossed that final 'T' and threw the pen down, he waited for the feeling of closure to sweep over him.

It did not come.

Instead, the same angry, bewildered frustration that had haunted every moment – waking and sleeping – of his life for the past three days kept humming beneath his skin.

Stewart Anderson finally began to realize that some things, once done, could not be undone. Some things can never be remade. And with that understanding, he buried his face in his palms and, for the first time since his grandmother's death, cried.

Over the course of that never-ending night, he grieved. For the love he lost, the trust he had thrown away, the life he could no longer claim . . . and for Krista, who hadn't been perfect, but still hadn't deserved this. He wished he could talk to her, apologize, beg for forgiveness – but he knew she would not hear him, nor believe it.

So he grieved for the death of a marriage and tasted the bitter ashes of the vows of infidelity.

_07/17/2016/_

"Krista?"

Krista Mavin looked up, searching out the source of the call. It took a moment for her to see the man, and another to process the sight.

"Greg?" she asked incredulously, starting toward him. "What are you doing here?"

Greg Lestrade grinned, his eyes glinting with humor. "Well, seeing how we're standing in front of a coffee house, I thought I'd get a drink."

He paused and gave her a searching look – one brimming with an interest she'd never seen from him. "Will you join me?" he asked.

Krista considered for a moment. She had dated a few times since the divorce, but it hadn't been anything serious. Trust was still a huge issue for her, and it had eventually caused friction with each man. But Greg . . . there had always been an attraction on her part, unacknowledged though it was, and he could not be duplicitous if he tried. It simply wasn't in his personality. Maybe it was time to take a risk.

"I'd love to."

_finis_


End file.
